


Snatch a Little Sleep

by allowaykirk



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, really it's just a gross amount of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 15:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6912649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allowaykirk/pseuds/allowaykirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a Friday night home game, and Jack's the victim of a particularly nasty check; chaos ensues.<br/>Very light angst, and a disproportionately huge amount of fluff.<br/>Background information: both Lardo and Georgia know. Also, I have no idea how hospitals work.<br/>Warning for blood, hospitalization, brief mention of Jack's past hospital experience, and allusions to sex.<br/>Based off of this lovely fanart: http://pawspaintsnthings.tumblr.com/post/140432886471/bittys-watching-the-falconers-game-at-the-haus<br/>Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snatch a Little Sleep

It’s a Friday night, and the Haus is alive with the sounds of hockey. The Falconers are playing a home game, and Bitty’s up to his elbows in dip. It is no easy feat to feed the entire Samwell Men’s Hockey team, mind you.  
So when Jack gets checked, he’s still in the kitchen. He hears the impact, the audience’s reaction, the yells of the boys in the living room. He tells himself not to worry—it may not be a check. It may just be a bad call.   
But then he steps into the frame of the living room, and sees the image of Jack half-crumpled on the ice, one hand gripping the railing of the rink.  
It’s okay, he thinks. It’s Jack, he’s strong. He’ll skate off and be back on the ice in five minutes.  
But something’s wrong. Jack’s helmet is askew, and he’s still kneeling on the ice.  
Then Bitty sees the blood start dripping down.  
“Oh my God,” he says hoarsely. The bowl slips from his fingers and clatters on the tiles, but he doesn’t even start at the sound. His eyes are glued to the TV screen, to the dark ribbons of blood that are now snaking down Jack’s jawline.  
“Oh, shit,” Holster says, his voice uncharacteristically hushed. “Oh, fuck. Ranse—“  
“I see,” Ransom says, teeth gritted. “Look, they’re helping him up.”  
The whole Haus is silent as the medics rushed onscreen. They grab Jack’s arms and haul him up, and for a moment, if Bitty ignores the red stain on the ice, he can pretend Jack’s fine.  
But then Jack tilts his head up, and Bitty’s breath catches in his throat. A horrible smear of blood stretches from Jack’s forehead to just below the ear. Another stripe is running down from his cheek, just below the eye.  
The announcers suck in their breath, and camera pans away quickly. Bitty stays rooted in place.  
Lardo places her hand on his shoulder, and only then does he realize he’s shaking.  
“That’s…” Nursey swallows. “An awful lot of blood.”  
“Give me your phone,” Lardo whispers into Bitty’s ear. “I’m calling George.”  
“He’s off the ice,” Ransom calls from by the TV. “They’re taking his helmet off—“  
Bitty watches in spite of himself. There’s another brief shot of gore, yawning across Jack’s face, and then the camera tips sickeningly to the rink.  
“Jesus Christ,” Dex swears. A can is crinkling in his hand, and beer is running down his arm.  
“Your phone, Bitty,” Lardo whispers, her hand rubbing comfortingly on his back. But he’s still shaking—so badly that he can’t even unlock the passcode.  
“0518,” He tells her miserably, wringing his hands to keep the boys from noticing how bad his fingers are trembling. Lardo taps in the password quickly, and within seconds she’s holding the phone to her ear. Bitty shakes again, and she holds him close so his head is tucked to her shoulder.  
“Hello, George, this is Lardo, calling from Bitty’s phone. He’s worried—we all are—and…” she listens, head cocked. Bitty is straining his ears for the sound of George’s voice, but the boys are still crowing at the TV, trying to figure out if they can see Jack in the background of the game.  
“I see. Yes. Okay…Yeah, okay. Thanks a ton, George.” Lardo hangs up and hands the phone back to Bitty, who clings to it desperately.  
“He got cut by his helmet,” Lardo says, her hands now clasped firmly to Bitty’s shoulders. “It’s not from impact—it’s just a surface wound—”  
She’s cut off by a wordless cry from the couch. The boys are crowded around the TV as the angle swings around to face the PR. Reps from the Falconers are standing in front of a small crowd, looking harried and tired.  
“Jack Zimmermann has sustained a surface-level facial injury and is being pulled out of the game. He’s been sent back to the locker rooms for immediate treatment. Depending on what the medics say, he might come back out to sit on the bench for the end of the game. But there’s a possibility they’ll want to move him to a nearby hospital to make sure he gets optimal treatment.”  
The word hospital is not too big a word, but it has quite an affect on people. The living room goes silent as everyone processes the information. The usual rowdiness of the Haus is a mere echo in everyone’s memory.  
It’s quite a sight—the whole Samwell Men’s Hockey team, shaken to the core.  
Bitty sets his mouth into a thin hard line, so hard it hurts. He looks at Lardo with as much conviction as he can muster in such a state. “Get your keys.”  
She nods, her expression grim. “Call George. I need to know which hospital to go to.”  
The living room regains its normal rowdiness. “Wait—you’re going? To the hospital?!”  
“They might not even take him to the hospital—“  
“Holtz, you saw all that blood, they’re not gonna sew that up in a fucking locker room—“  
“If you don’t approve of driving up the I-95 to see Jack Zimmermann’s injured ass on a Friday night, then shut your faces and go to bed!” Lardo swings her lanyard over her head like she’s going to lasso anyone who argues with her, and it’s quite effective.  
“What if we want to come with?” Chowder asks, voice piping up timidly. The poor child—Bitty feels a pang of guilt as he realizes he’s not the only one shattered about this. Chowder’s got his lip pinched between his teeth to keep it from trembling.  
Lardo eyes the group, still swinging her keys, then sighs. “Then you’d better be in my car in five minutes, or else I’m leaving without you.”

Lardo drives a sleek little blue Chrysler 200.  
The key word there is little. There are exactly five seats. Which usually isn’t a problem, except for the fact that there are five team members who want to join her and Bitty on their trip to the hospital.  
Lardo’s driving, and Holster is voted to take shotgun, since he would take up too much space in the back. Nursey and Dex swear they’ll be quiet on the trip, but are voted out and spaced on opposite sides of the backseat, with Ransom in between them.  
Bitty is positioned on Nursey’s lap, and Chowder on Dex’s.  
“If you boys get me arrested,” Lardo sighs as she backs the car out of the Haus driveway, “I swear to God…”  
“Lardo, you get infinite pies for this,” Bitty says, stretching to squeeze her shoulder from the backseat.  
Her hand grabs at his, and squeezes his fingers firm for reassurance before sliding back on the steering wheel. “Not a problem, Bits.”  
It is a problem—dropping everything to drive your friend to another state in the middle of the night—but Bitty gets what she means. I know what Jack means to you, and if this will put your mind at ease, I’m happy to help.  
Bitty feels the sting rise up behind his eyes, and grips his hands until they hurt. If it were just him and Lardo in the car, he wouldn’t hesitate to bawl as they coasted down the highway. But it’s going to be a little harder to pull that off when there are four other people in the backseat with him.  
So he just peers out the window and hopes Nursey can’t see the tears in his eyes in the reflection of the window.  
The hour drive is long and gruelingly painful. Lardo’s backseat is cramped, the conversation is stilted, and all Bitty can think of are those lines of blood on Jack’s face. He can’t even send texts—he can’t risk being caught by Nursey or Ransom. Or if one of the Falconers’ PR members got a hold of Jack’s buzzing phone? Christ…  
So instead he bites his nails and suffers through the drive. Finally, long after his fingertips have gone ragged, Lardo parks in the Miriam Hospital parking lot. They race through the lot and into the lobby. George is there, leaning against the wall, blinking blearily at her phone. When the doors open, though, she snaps to attention and rushes towards them.  
“Laceration to the face,” she says, before they can even get any words out. “It’s not a concussion—he got some stitches and he’s hooked up to a monitor just to be safe, but he’s fine.”  
She’s looking right at Bitty as she says this, but he still can’t stop wringing his hands. Lardo pats his shoulder. It’s the best she can do, here in the lobby, in clear sight of the team.   
“He’ll be fine,” George says again, with more conviction. “I’ve given the hospital a heads-up that you’d want to come in. I, ah, wasn’t expecting so many, though…You’ll have to go one at a time.”  
“Alphabetical order,” Lardo blurts out. If Bitty could, he’d give her a pie right then. Chocolate pecan, her favorite.  
“Sounds good,” George says, and takes Bitty’s shoulder. “Come on, Eric. You’re up first.”

George manages to rush some of the process of getting into the room, but it’s past midnight by the time Bitty manages to get to Jack’s room.  
He knocks on the door, and after a moment, lets himself in. The door clicks shut firmly behind him—the last thing they need is for it to swing open.  
The room is silent, save for the beeping of the monitor. Jack’s fast asleep, one arm thrown over his chest. The stitches sit, red and irritated and ugly, on the surface of his skin.  
Bitty bites his lip and walks over to Jack’s bedside. For a moment he’s afraid to wake him. He looks so tired, the skin beneath his eyes purpling and fading into the bruises on his cheekbone.  
So Bitty just clings to the bed railing, rubbing his thumb worriedly over the plastic until Jack’s eyes begin to flutter.  
“Hey handsome,” Bitty whispers, his voice thick with emotion.  
“Be honest,” Jack says, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Do I look like Frankenstein?”  
Bitty chokes on a laugh and presses his face into Jack’s chest. “Oh, honey…”  
“So that’s a yes then.”  
He stands back up and takes Jack’s hand to his mouth, cradles his fingers. “You scared me something awful, sweetheart.”  
“Mon ange,” Jack croaks, his mouth quirking up in a weak smile. He seems to be waking up and getting the gist of the situation. “You did not need to come all the way down here—“  
“Oh, hush,” Bitty says, and lays a finger, feather-light, to Jack’s lips. He strokes them delicately. “Here you are laying in bed with your face all bloodied and bruised, telling me that I don’t need to come down and care for you—“  
“You didn’t,” Jack chuckles, then hits Bitty with that thousand-mile stare, and God, are his knees weak. Bitty sinks against the edge of the hospital bed until their faces are inches from each other. “But I’m glad you did.”  
There’s something vulnerable in Jack’s voice.  
“You okay here?” Bitty whispers.  
Jack shrugs, but his eyes flick towards the floor. “I freaked out a little, at first. Waking up to the smell of chemicals, with a monitor and a bunch of doctors…” His smile is more of a grimace. “Wasn’t exactly something I wanted to relive.”  
Bitty kisses the top of his head, fingers gentle against the curl of Jack’s ear. “You’re alright,” he whispers again Jack’s left temple—one of the few spots on his face that isn’t stained with blood or flushed by a bruise.  
“I am now,” Jack whispers back, and fumbles for his other hand. He laughs into Bitty’s fingers. “I can’t believe all this—I’m sorry for all the trouble—“  
“No, no, honey, you don’t have to be sorry—”  
“They didn’t need to give me a bed—”  
“You were bleeding out of your head, Jack!”  
“I think they just did it because I fell asleep.”  
Bitty laughs in spite of himself. “How’d you even manage to do that?”  
“Bittle,” Jack grumbles. He’s using his captain’s voice, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It is midnight, and I am very tired.”  
Bitty just snorts and kisses Jack’s hairline. “None of this is your fault,” he says with conviction, tapping Jack’s forehead with every word. “And hell, if it takes a bad check to drag me down here, perhaps I’ll have to take the train next weekend, too. Just to make sure you don’t go throwing yourself in the planks for another chance to see me.”  
Jack laughs at that, the sound loud and ringing, and Bitty’s stress melts away. “I’d like that very much,” Jack says, cupping Bitty’s face with both hands now.  
Bitty isn’t used to having to lean down when they kiss, but he’s certainly not going to complain—not when Jack’s stroking his skin like that, and he’s running his fingers through Jack’s bangs.  
It’s a long, breathless time before Bitty’s lips part from Jack’s. Jack tilts his jaw upwards, trying to follow Bitty’s mouth with his own, and Bitty chuckles.  
“The others are here, too. They’ll get suspicious if I stay too long…”  
Jack’s eyebrows crinkle. “You’ll stay until I’m released, though, right?”  
Bitty kisses the crease of his forehead, easing it. “Of course, honey.”

By the time Jack’s released, it’s just after four. Jack insists they come over to his apartment to sleep before driving back to the Haus, and no one is against the idea.  
Which is how Bitty finds himself in the living room of Jack’s apartment, in a huge pile of blankets and comforters. Holster and Ransom lay sprawled across the couches, Dex and Nursey are both snoring on the floor beside Bitty, and Lardo has cocooned herself in a collection of blankets, all wedged in the L-shaped corner of the couch.  
After agonizing waiting, Bitty gets up as quietly as he can manage, and creeps away from the pile.  
“Get it in,” Lardo mumbles from her nest of blankets, and gives him a sleepy thumbs-up.  
“Oh, you hush,” Bitty whispers, cheeks burning, but smiles all the way to Jack’s room.  
There’s no “getting it in” that night, as Lardo so delicately put it—they’re far too tired, and Jack has enough bruises as it is. But it’s more than enough, Bitty thinks, to be able to curl up with Jack in the warmth of his bed and snatch at a little sleep before the sun comes up.


End file.
